Sleepless
by Initial A
Summary: Steve finds himself unable to get back to sleep after nightmares about the war...


**Sleepless**

**By: InitialA**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing in the Marvel universe.**

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Steve slung the cold, wet towel around his neck. He ran his fingers through his sweat-soaked hair as he walked into the kitchen. The light over the sink was on, and Tony sat at the island with a bag of Fritos, two books opened next to him, and writing in a notebook. Steve tried to ignore him as he went to the fridge, hoping to find something that would take the edge off the nightmare that had woken him. He hesitated, and then reached for the lone bottle of Bud in the back, when the other man spoke. "Good stuff's in the bar," Tony said quietly, not looking up from his equations.

"It doesn't affect me," Steve replied, instead taking out the orange juice he'd made earlier. "I'd rather stick to this."

"A man doesn't wake up in the middle of the night, looking like you do, and immediately crave orange juice, Cap."

Steve didn't look at him. "It's probably better that I don't, anyway."

Tony didn't reply. Steve downed the juice and washed the glass. Everyone told him that was what the dishwasher was for, but old habits were hard to break. When he finished, he leaned against the counter, not quite ready to try and sleep again, but not entirely sure he wanted to talk to Tony. It occurred to him that it was three in the morning, and he shouldn't be up either. He watched Tony working, noting the slight droop in the other man's posture, the slight shake in his writing. "Not many men wake up in the middle of the night and feel the need to solve math problems, either," Steve said after a while.

"More do than you'd think, or else we'd still be living in the 40s," Tony replied, a hint of a challenge in his voice.

Steve didn't take the bait. Instead, he sat at the island as well, leaving a stool between them. Tony moved the Fritos bag closer to himself. Steve smirked a bit. "So…" Tony said after a while. "What does make a man crave orange juice at three in the morning?"

He wasn't sure he wanted to talk about it, with anyone—especially Tony Stark—at all. The recurring nightmares. The war. Peggy. "Just… bad dreams. Bad memories. It's nothing, really," he said eventually.

Tony made a noise of disbelief. Steve frowned. "You'd wake up screaming in the night if you crashed a plane full of bombs into the Arctic, ready to die to save everyone, and then somehow lived to tell the tale."

Tony thrust the Fritos bag Steve's way. "You're right. I would. And I do."

Steve took a few chips. "You didn't have almost a century of time, of your _life_, stolen from you."

"No, but one misstep, and I can kiss everything good-bye," he said, tapping the arc reactor, glowing through his shirt.

The only sounds were Tony's pencil scratching against the paper, and Steve crunching on the Fritos. "I miss her," Steve said quietly.

"She missed you."

"You knew her?"

"She was around when I was a kid. Dad never shut up about you, she filled in the blanks. She was great."

Steve smiled, almost to himself. "She was…" He gestured to the paper. "So… what's that for?"

"Wormhole intensity, theory of general relativity, some gravity, et cetera. Foster wants to test a few things; I'm running the numbers for her."

Steve blinked. Tony saw, and the corners of his mouth twitched. "Outer space physics," he simplified.

"Right… But you can figure that out faster on a computer. That's why they were made, isn't it?"

"Yeah," Tony sighed, scratching out a few more numbers and symbols. "But watching a computer run data isn't as distracting as having to figure it out for yourself."

"I see."

"Afghanistan."

Steve thought back to Tony's files, the ones he was given before the Chitauri attack. He'd been kidnapped while touring—selling to—military bases in Afghanistan, held hostage while sustaining life-threatening wounds, and eventually escaped using the armor he'd created instead of the weapons his captors had wanted. He could see where Tony would pick up the restless sleeping habit. "Fuck 'em," Steve said, taking a few more chips.

That startled a laugh from Tony. "Well, well. Look at Captain Rogers, swearing like a sailor."

"There's a time and a place for it, Stark."

"Time and a place for what?" They looked up. Natasha, wearing what looked like only a t-shirt, went to the fridge. "Pajama party, is it?" She asked, pulling out a pre-made smoothie.

Steve felt his entire body turning red, and tried not to look at her. Tony, to his credit, kept his eyes on her face. "First meeting of the Midnight PTSD Society. Membership is free, weekly kitchen dates, don't hog the food."

She quirked an eyebrow. "Interesting. Rogers, I _am_ decent under this. It's a bit hard to hide twelve knives on your person without a pair of panties."

He went for the glass he'd left on the drying rack, and poured himself a very decent amount of cold water. He gulped it down, willing his skin to return to some shade resembling normal. Tony was chuckling. "Twelve knives, in the middle of the night, in the most secure compound outside of Camp David. Seriously, membership is free."

"I've learned to live with my past. The knives are a habit. Especially if I need to pin annoying billionaires to walls in the middle of the night," Natasha fired back.

Steve turned, hoping to keep some sort of composure. Tony and Natasha were having a glaring contest. "It's just some trouble sleeping…" He said, half to himself and half to break the tension between them.

"It'll come easier," she said, not breaking eye contact with Tony. Steve could tell this could be a while. "You just have to make your peace with whatever's bothering you."

He muttered something, staring at the floor. Tony apparently blinked first, because he swore. "Shit. I'll beat you one of these days."

"After we get you some Adderall, maybe."

"Hey! There are people who would take offense to that!"

Natasha ignored him. She looked at Steve. "If you need help getting to sleep, I can help you out—if you want to keep your tongue in your head you'll shut it, Stark."

Tony smirked anyway. Steve felt the heat rising in his cheeks again. "There's plenty of ways to tire you out—" Tony coughed suggestively; Steve found he couldn't meet her eyes again. Natasha glared at Tony. "—including a good nerve pinch, which I will demonstrate on you if you do not keep your sex fantasies to yourself, Stark."

He grinned outright, and opened his mouth to say something. Natasha rolled her eyes, and reached behind her back. Before either man could blink, a four-inch knife was embedded into the notebook Tony had been writing in. "That's a warning. You only get one," she said. Tony closed his mouth.

"If you want any help sometime, just let me know," she said to Steve. She took her smoothie with her as she walked to the door. She paused a moment, looking over her shoulder at him. "He _is_ right though. Sex is fairly good at wearing you out too."

"Um…"

Steve looked helplessly at Tony after she left. The other man shrugged. "Don't look at me, man. You're on your own with her. She scares the shit out of me."

He stood, and clapped the soldier on the shoulder. "You alright?"

"I will be… yeah. Thank you."

"I didn't do anything. Same time next week?"

Steve smiled a bit. "I hope not."

"Me too. I live in hope, said the blind man to his deaf wife," Tony said, a bit wistfully, and waved Steve off, heading back to his rooms.

Steve looked at the mess Tony had left on the island—book, the dredges of the protein smoothies he drank, the Fritos bag, the notebook with the knife sticking out of it. He decided he'd leave it for someone else yell at Tony for in the morning. He did palm Natasha's knife, taking it with him. He'd give it back to her tomorrow, when he asked about her sleeping techniques.

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((End. The question does remain… which sleeping techniques does Steve really want to learn from Nat? ;) ))


End file.
